


Serenity in Chains

by that_which_yields



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Bondage and Discipline, Complicated Relationships, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Partner Swapping, Preventers, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_which_yields/pseuds/that_which_yields
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the war, the Gundam pilots have joined Preventers. They form a special ops team that is the Preventers' last resort, the last line of defense. A line of nightclubs across the ESUN and the colonies sits in the center of a deadly drug ring and weapons manufacturing operation. The pilots are sent in to investigate, only to discover that the people they need to catch are involved in a different sort of club, one with a distinctly darker theme. 2x1, 3x4, BDSM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trust vs. Mistrust

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not quite sure how I feel about this one yet. It might only last a little while.

  
__

_Mister Maxwell, tell me about the other pilots._

What about them?

_Many people, including administrative staff within the agency and prime political figures, see you as a little…_

Crazy? Neurotic? Totally fucked in the head? I can keep going…

_I was going to say unstable. But the fact that you suggested similar words implies that you’ve noticed._

How could I not have noticed? We’re all fucking batshit. Can’t survive in a world without guns and death and constant fear for our lives. ‘s why we had to join Preventers. We don’t know any other way to live. Yeah, we tried… and Quat prolly coulda done it. He’s the most… stable, as you put it. Other than his dad dyin’ an’ all. He has family, support systems… he has somethin’ to go back to. Tro has the circus, an’ Catherine, but they’re not home to him. I think Trine is the only one keepin’ him stable these days.

_Trine is…?_

That’s his other side’s name. He’s a bit edgy, a bit bitter. More volatile than Trowa, more reactive. Damn good agent though. That’s usually who we see on missions. ‘Ro…. Fuck, not much I can say about him. An assassin without assignments is a loose cannon. Ya know people used ta call him the Perfect Soldier. Even tho’ he’d fuck up missions an’ lose his shit because of it. He was just so damn… fierce. Like he was born to it. The guns an’ the mobile suits and the undercover shit. He needs this job more than any of us. Needs a purpose. I should know. But he also needs us.

_Why’s that?_

The same reason any of us need the others. We need someone to understand. Someone who’s been there.

_There are plenty of veterans out there, Mister Maxwell. Thousands. You aren’t alone._

Pardon me sayin’, miss, but it’s not the same. Yeah, they fought like we did. But they’re scared of us. Terrified. Even if they pretend they’re not. Wanna know why? Because we did shit no one else would do. We didn’t give a fuck who we took out as long as we got the mission done. We didn’t give a fuck if we survived, if our buddies survived, if our Gundams survived. Well… we prolly protected the Gundams more than we protected ourselves. We were expendable. Paper dolls. Replaceable. The Gundams were one of a kind. Well. Five of a kind. You get the point. Thing is, we went into it knowin’ we wouldn’t make it out. We did shit no one would have asked another human being to do, let alone a fifteen year old. We’re kiddy killers, miss. Not killers who murder kids, but kids who were raised to kill. And that scares the fuck outta everyone. Kids are supposed to be innocent, protected. Not these little hellions who could look ya in the eyes as they knifed ya in the ribs.

_Is that why you refuse to partner with anyone other than another Gundam pilot?_

It’s not a matter of refusing. I don’t get the chance to do that. They won’t come within ten fucking feet of Shinigami – that’s me – in battle rage, and none of ‘em know how ta bring me out of it safely. It only took a few scared shitless mission reports before they left me to my own devices. An’ I picked Heero. Always will. He needs me. Needs someone to talk him away from the edge, needs someone to remind him that it’s okay to be human. ‘Ro’s my partner. We’re better together than we are apart. Same with Quat and Tro. Quat’s a bit leery of Trine but they’re gettin’ there.

 _What about Agent Long?_ Pause. _Why are you laughing, Mister Maxwell?_

Why am I… nevermind. Just nevermind. I don’t wanna sound harsh but… Wufei never wanted ta be one of us. He was a lone wolf… lone dragon, I guess. Didn’t mind our company but preferred his own. Even now… last I heard, he hadn’t had a permanent partner in months. Only person who ever sticks around is Sally Po, but that woman has the tenacity of a damn pitbull. Would take a more stubborn man than Wufei to shake her.

_Something else, Mister Maxwell?_

Time’s up, Doc.

_Punctual as always. I’ll see you next week?_

Sure thing.

* * *

 

Duo stretches as he steps out into the hallway, one hand gripping the collar of the regulation jacket slung over his shoulder. He always thought it was a little silly, making them wear uniforms when they stuck out like a sore thumb. The higher-ups didn’t much care for his opinion, though. A familiar figure lounges against the far wall, attempting to appear casual. He couldn’t be further from it, hooded eyes glittering dangerously beneath dropped lids, body strung with the tension that constantly lined his still-slender body.

“You know you don’t hafta wait for me, ‘Ro.”

Heero shrugs, lifting one shoulder in an almost imperceptible gesture. He is still relatively non-vocal, though it had been years since anyone had considered it wartime. He speaks to Duo, carries on almost-normal conversations, but asking him to engage in any sort of small talk is like pulling teeth off a predator’s jaw. Many skills are part of a soldier’s repertoire. Chatting with strangers and fitting in properly with society are not involved.

As always, Duo rolls the strangeness off of his shoulders and slips into his jacket. He wanders down the wide hallway, Heero automatically falling in behind him, half a step back and slightly to the side. Protecting his back, even within the most efficient law-enforcing organization the world had to offer. Duo doesn’t mind – doesn’t bother to object to his partner’s habits. Heero is always going to react like that, like a cornered predator, like a feral animal put on the defensive.

He says hi to people as they passed. Some shy away from him, despite his friendly smile. Some offer a skittish wave and quicken their footsteps. Some pause long enough to inquire as to his health (though he isn’t foolish enough to actually answer that question with anything other than the expected ‘good, and you?’). And some, a rare few that he secretly admires for their bravery, say hi not only to him but also to his stoic, constantly glaring partner. Not that Heero ever acknowledges them.

Heero doesn’t acknowledge, well, anyone. Sometimes Duo hypothesizes that Heero only speaks to him because they are roommates. He has that silent communication going on with Trowa, and he and Wufei exchange honorable telepathy or something when they are in the same room. And Quatre… well, Quatre could carry on a conversation with a brick wall, same as he could. He and Quatre just talked, to fill the stillness.

It’s only as they head down the stairs to their home gym, Heero checking the corners and twitching at shadows, Duo bouncing two steps at a time, that Heero finally speaks. “How was your appointment?”

“Oh, ya know… same shit, different day. Asked why we only work with each other.”

Heero toes open the door to the basement, flicking on the lights and ducking behind the frame. He glances out, eyes scanning the room, and nods an all-clear to Duo before moving in the direction of the treadmill. Heero preferred to run outside, but would fly through a couple miles of cardio on the treadmill as a warm-up before strength training. Duo snorts under his breath, watching his partner’s impeccably well-muscled body shift into motion. _That beautiful bastard_.

He wanders over to the weights, hefting a few in his hands as he lets his muscles decide what they can handle today. It is a heavy day apparently, and his body eagerly stretches into the tug and drag of the metal. On the other side of the room, Heero strips down to his bare chest, tossing his shirt over the rail of the treadmill. Sweat gleams on his tanned skin, beginning to trickle down in rivulets to the band of his mesh shorts. His brow furrows in thought as he paces along the belt.

“No one else wants to,” he comments quietly, the words somehow stretching across the equipment-filled room to his ears.

Duo pauses in his repetitions, glancing over at his partner. “What?”

“To partner us. The only people who willingly agree to work with Gundam pilots are the other Gundam pilots.” Their eyes meet across the room, Heero’s gaze curious but unaffected. Heero never was as fixated on acceptance as the others.

“I know,” Duo confirms, resuming his workout. “That’s what I told her.”

“Why is it our job to make friends? We’re like animals in a zoo. You keep the lions with the lions… because if you let them out, they destroy the sheep. And the sheep know it.”

* * *

 

A hand on Duo’s shoulder shakes him awake, and Heero catches the knife arrowing for his eye socket. Duo grins sleepily up at him, yanking his wrist free of Heero’s grip and tucking the knife back into its place beneath his pillow. Heero is never disturbed by the way he wakes, alert and lethal, knife or gun or brass knuckles heading straight for the vital parts of whoever disturbs him. And he doesn’t have to worry about locking his door or setting an alarm, because Heero’s reflexes are more than capable of halting his unprovoked attacks.

“What is it, ‘Ro?”

“Mission alert. Undercover. They need us for briefing.”

“’k. Gimme a second to wake up,” he mumbles, scrubbing sleep from his eyes.

He sits up, the covers falling to his waist and puddling around his… he glances down, flicking his gaze to Heero’s retreating back, and palms his morning wood back into his boxers.  Heero leans against the doorframe, folding his arms across his chest with a neutral expression on his face. He’s already dressed, regulation Preventers uniform draped neatly across his athletic form. The sleeves of his button-down are cuffed at his elbows, precisely equal, exposing his muscular forearms.

Duo winces and scurries to the bathroom, snagging his uniform from the door. He’s always had a weakness for nice forearms, and Heero’s body is a goddamn work of art. He won’t fuck Heero, wouldn’t even dream of it, not with the amount of emotional damage the other boy carries on his shoulders. But fuck if his body cares about that reasoning. Logic wouldn’t touch Heero with a ten-foot pole, but certain parts of his anatomy would enjoy being well-acquainted with the Asian boy.

 _Fuck off, brain._ He wrenches the uniform over his limbs, resisting the urge to do more than begrudgingly tuck his half-hard cock into its proper place. His libido grumbles, rousing from sleep, perking up with interest as he meanders back into his bedroom. Heero stirs, unfurling from the door like a dangerous shadow, and stalks toward the living area. Duo tucks in his shirt, giving his erection a promising caress, and then ruthlessly shuts down his sex drive. Now is not the time.

* * *

Heero’s hand grazes his back as they slip into the conference room, a pair of lethal wraiths. It might have affected him more, especially considering his morning mental acrobatics, if he hadn’t known that Heero was checking for the gun concealed in the waistband of his pants. Heero always checked him, ghosting a hand across spine or ribs, flexing a foot into ankle or shin, ensuring that his gun or at the very least his knives were somewhere on his person. A tiny smile curls Duo’s lips. He might be a PTSD riddled psychopath, but he had his ways of showing affection. Protection and neuroses, mostly. Check the locks on the door at least three times. Six locks, half locked, half unlocked. Even locks on odd days, odd locks on even days. Check the corners in every room. Sleep with a weapon nearby. Hide a weapon in every room. Two exits or a back-up. Always have a plan.

And Duo lived with it, not only because he had the same soldier instincts as Heero, but because it made him feel safe. There was comfort in safety rituals, in the familiar habits of war and danger. Knowing that, if the worst happened, Heero was prepared and would be there before he asked.

This new mission was no exception. They always called Heero and Duo in together. Heero and Duo, Quatre and Trowa. Wufei was usually occupied with training, hand-to-hand combat, manned vehicles, and survival tactics. He got called in every once in a blue moon, when his expertise was necessary for the mission.

He slumps into a chair near the back of the room, Heero standing at attention behind him. His braid coils down the arm of the chair, tail nearly brushing the floor, and he snags the length of hair before it can actually touch. His own little neurosis. The braid is like the nation’s flag – don’t manhandle it, don’t deface it, and don’t let it touch the ground. Treat it like it’s holy. Quatre shakes his hand in passing, offering pleasantries to Duo and a nod and a greeting to Heero. Trowa pauses in front of Heero, tilting his head. After a moment, the two tip their chins ever so slightly. Heero resumes his attentive pose and the two newcomers take their seats.

Quatre leans over to murmur something to Trowa, and Duo wonders for the millionth time if the two are officially coupled yet. According to Quatre, they’ve slept together a few times – post-mission euphoria turned need for release. Usually after particularly difficult assignments, ones where they lost part of their crew. There was something life-affirming about fucking in the wake of death, and Duo couldn’t blame them. After all, their sex lives were like their work lives – no one wanted to deal with the Gundam pilots except each other. It considerably narrowed down the options for a social life.

Duo could sometimes get away with releasing his hair from the braid and going clubbing. There was always a drunken man at a bar who was willing to look past the battle scars and the mecha calluses on his hands. He couldn’t risk it often, though. It always left Heero strung out and nervous when he disappeared for those hours, and he didn’t dare tell him where he was going. It was kind of a deal breaker to have a terrifying Asian bodyguard shadowing your every step.

Une strides through the door like she’s summoning her knights for battle, and everyone sits up a little straighter. Taking her place at the front of the room, she drops a stack of paper on the table.

“Thank you for coming in.” They all nod in acknowledgement. “I have a new assignment for all of you. It will be an undercover operation. I’m sure that most of you have heard about the series of clubs being established across the country. High scale, catering to the upper echelons, very exclusive. The main club is called Firefly. We suspect that these clubs are a front for a vast weapons manufacturing and drug fabrication organization.”

“Which drug?” Duo pipes up. He’s usually the one sent in on substance issues and drug busts, since he has enough street kid left in him from L2 to pull off the undercover. It’s not something he enjoys being good at, but at least his past is serving a purpose.

“It’s called Serenity,” Une reads from the sheet of paper.

The breath hisses from between Duo’s teeth, and the team turns to face him. He lifts one shoulder, a wince creasing his features. “That’s bad stuff, guys. It’s synthetic and gives a great ride, but it’s been killin’ people left and right. Kids, mostly, because it’s dosed for adults an’ the dealers don’t bother to cut their stash for the littles. They don’t care as long as they get money, an’ enough people are desperate enough that they’ll try it. Nasty substance.”

“Exactly,” Une agrees. “We’re not sure how far-reaching the weapons manufacturing and selling is, but the drug is extensively wide-spread. The further it gets from their base of operations, the more it gets combined with other substances. We’ve plotted the map of Serenity-related deaths and there’s a web spreading out from a few center points. All of these cities have Firefly-connected clubs in them. The owner is rumored to be highly dangerous and volatile, which is why we’re sending in special ops – you. It’s just recon for now.”

“What is our cover story?” Quatre inquires.

“You are all highly recognized by anyone connected to weaponry. There’s a definite chance that the leaders are veterans. That being the case, we’ll send you in as you are. Renegade pilots, too accustomed to fighting the system to submit to peacetime. Rumor is that they’re interested in the ZERO system as well. Heero, Trowa, either one of you could use that as leverage to gain their trust.”

A tiny shiver wracks Heero’s frame and Duo shifts the angle of his body, reaching out to press a gentle touch onto Heero’s wrist. The other boy stills, absorbing the support, casting him a grateful glance.

“Time frame?” Heero snaps out tersely.

Une doesn’t flinch, used to his lack of conversational courtesies by now. She glances down at her notes, shuffles them around, and finds a piece of correspondence. “You’re going to need to go in at night, when the club is open, sooner rather than later. This is a time sensitive issue. We don’t want the weapons operation getting any larger than it already is, and we certainly don’t want that narcotic to remain on the streets. I’ll leave the specifics up to you, but I’ll need a mission report in no longer than seven days.”

“Mission accepted,” Heero murmurs.

Duo shakes his head, braid twitching against his neck. He tips a salute to Une as she passes, offering a quick wave to the others. Business completed, Heero is already shifting restlessly behind him. He rarely stuck around for the socializing part of briefings, but he would linger as long as Duo was in the room… which meant that Duo could either stay and chat, which would saddle him with an increasingly jittery roommate, or find an outlet for Heero’s energy, which would make him much more tolerable.

As always, Duo chose the second option. There was no point getting Heero all wound up just so he could catch up with the other pilots. Since they would all be on assignment together, there would be plenty of time for him to find out what Quatre and the tall shadow had been up to. And he could always phone Quatre once Heero was uneasily unconscious for the night. He rises smoothly from his seat, flipping his braid over his shoulder, and chirps a goodbye before ambling out of the room.

* * *

Duo leans over the balcony railing, purple eyes fixed on the flame-rippled sky. He can’t see the ocean from their house but he can hear it, a soothing static of sea crashing into rocks, withdrawing with a low hiss, returning again with renewed fervor. The wind tangles playfully through his mane of hair, tossing it around his face. He tucks a lock behind his ear, lips twitching in distaste as his fingers catch on a snarl. He should have braided it before he came outside, but…

He sighs. The case is already getting to him. Drug assignments are rough, especially when they involve kids. They’re rough on all of the pilots, but none of them seem to react like he does when they pull up to a deserted alley to find another tiny, crumpled body abandoned on the pavement like so much trash. He clenches his fists.

What he really needs is to be back in the cage, away from this political, red-tape bullshit. Away from the rules and the uniforms and the nose-to-the-grindstone job. He rubs at his knuckles, the scar tissue catching on the pads of his fingers, the slightly sunken bone leaving divots for his wandering touch. He missed MMA. It was the one hobby he was good at, now that Deathscythe was gone. He’d been so dedicated to his buddy – could make that mecha move in ways it was never designed to do. Could hack any transmission, any firewall, or complicated network from that Gundanium cockpit. It was frowned upon for Preventers to get in trouble for computer mischief though, and Deathscythe went into the sun with the other Gundams half a dozen years ago.

And now he couldn’t even resort to fighting. He was good at it. Damn good. So good that his handicap placed him in the weight class above his proper position. They tried to start him in his own class, reckoning that a scrawny, malnourished kid from L2 couldn’t do much damage. It only took a few devastating knockouts, a few utterly obliterated opponents, before they realized that he was too lethal for the smaller fighters.

People feared him in the cage. Feared him but also respected him. They didn’t mess with him in the locker room, like some of the seasoned fighters would occasionally rough up the newbies. They didn’t fuck with him but they didn’t run from him, either. He could walk out of the cage, stalk past the stretcher carrying out his unlucky opposer, and find fighters waiting to shake his hand, waiting to compliment him on his technique, waiting to ask if he had time to work with them on a move. It was real, there. No one cringing when his velvet eyes lit on them. No one trying to back out of fights with him. They knew going in that they would lose, but they never backed down out of fear.

He snarls, scuffing his hand across his nose, remembering times when that skin would come away streaked with blood. He always let them get one hit in, figuring that it would be the first and last. They knew it too – they’d usually go for his face, his ribs, trying to leave a lasting mark. It was a badge of pride to have the outline of your fist bruised into Shinigami’s skin. It was the ‘but’ that they could brag about. _Yeah, I only went half a round with Shini before he fucked me up, but did you see the shiner on him?_

But he couldn’t flee back to the comfort of the cage. Heero needed him. Relied on him. He kept Heero sane, kept his edgy partner from going head-long into missions that would have him emerging in a bodybag. He was the anchor to Heero’s raging storm, the person who understood and accepted all of the ritual and paranoia that kept Heero’s PTSD in line. He couldn’t risk getting damaged in a fight and being out of commission if Heero got called in for an op. Which left him with nothing. No coping skills. No fighter family. Just his fellow Gundam pilots, dead kids on street corners, coworkers who couldn’t look him in the eye, and a fuckton of unresolved fury.

He spins around, two steps away from the brick of the building, arm rising to deliver a punch that would do enough damage to drag his head back together. He pulls out of his emotional dive as Heero appears, silhouetted in the glass doors. Duo’s body stiffens, every muscle tensing, and he desperately tries to stop the spiral. A compassionate glow lights Heero’s deep blue eyes as he steps forward, slipping into Duo’s space. Duo tries to back away, his face torn with panic.

“Heero, don’t,” he gasps out, his voice strangled.

Heero steps closer, mouths ‘trust me’, and slips his wrists into Duo’s hands. Duo’s grip tightens convulsively, calluses scraping over the myriad of scars marring Heero’s skin. He’s abruptly reminded of that horror movie night, the midnight when he realized just how much Heero needed him. A blood-stained carpet, sheets stiff with crimson, the nightmare ambulance ride, his fingers trying to shutter the shredded gaps in Heero’s forearms, the sickening white of the hospital walls, the ebony stitches straggling up his partner’s arms.

They all have their ways of coping. And Heero is offering him all of the war-bred pain tolerance, all of the agonizing hours of ‘training’ under Doctor J’s experimental drugs and procedures. So he takes it. Takes Heero’s offer at face value and clamps down on his partner’s wrists, fists clenching until the bones creak and shift beneath his fingers. Heero doesn’t wince, doesn’t shift even slightly. Instead, his face smooths out beneath the grinding pain, a fuzzy haze creeping into his Prussian eyes.   Duo clamps down until Heero’s fingertips begin to blue beneath the strain, knuckles white and bloodless. Heero’s mouth parts, lips forming an almost erotic ‘o’ of pleasure. It’s the giving in more than anything else that enables Duo to step away.

He pries his hands open, letting his fingers graze over the bruises rising on Heero’s arms. He doesn’t meet Heero’s eyes as he mutters a thank you, slipping past him to escape into the bathroom. Locking the door, he sinks onto the floor, the chill of the tile dripping into his skin. He leans his head against the comforting solidarity of the door and swallows repeatedly, trying to force down the nausea. He can’t afford to lose control now, not with so many people relying on him. But goddamnit, he almost just snapped his best friend’s wrists because he was losing it.

* * *

The bathroom is dim and sullen when a hesitant tap rattles the door. Duo lifts his head from his knees, points bleary eyes at the offending noise. He rolls his wrist over to read his watch and curses silently. The mission. They had to meet Quatre and Trowa soon.

“Duo…?”

“’m coming. Hold on a sec.”

He levers himself to his feet, flicking on the light. He almost reaches out and turns it back off when his reflection grimly rises in front of him. Mussed hair, flyaways escaping from his braid, haunted amethyst eyes. _Walking, talking hot mess. And I’m ‘sposed to go out in public and look attractive._ Scrubbing a hand over his face, he tugs the door open and comes nose to nose with Heero.

Heero takes a tiny step back, just enough to be out of his space, and Duo swallows, hard. Heero gestures at himself and then glances at Duo for approval. “Is this okay? I didn’t really know what to wear. It’s not… mission gear.”

Duo scans Heero’s body, slams his libido into a tiny, tiny, box, and pinches the bridge of his nose. How exactly do you say “I would fuck you in a heartbeat” to your partner, who has little concept of social cues? Instead, he manages a suitably neutral smile and offers, “You’ll be fine, ‘Ro.”

Heero plucks at the fabric of his skintight jeans, frowning down at the dark fabric. “Are you sure? Quatre suggested this outfit, but… I’m not… it’s … not what I would usually wear.”

 _Which is a damn good thing for me_. Duo looks him over again, under the guise of double-checking, and the heat drains out of him as his eyes catch on Heero’s wrists. Heero always cuffs the sleeves of his button-down shirts, preferring not to potentially have fabric in the way of his hands. But tonight, with bruises blossoming like blood flowers beneath his tanned skin, that just isn’t an option.

“You need ta roll your sleeves down,” Duo comments quietly.

Their eyes meet, and there is no accusation in Heero’s ocean blue gaze. A line appears between his eyebrows, lips pressing together slightly. He fingers the wide cuff of his sleeve but doesn’t move to unroll it. “I… that would not be a good idea,” Heero murmurs.

“Fuck, ‘Ro. I don’t want ta hafta explain to Quat and Tro why my fingerprints are bone deep in your arm.”

Heero shrugs, unwilling to retreat from his position. Vulnerability is a trigger for him, always has been, and his need to have his hands free and unhindered is a non-negotiable issue.

“Heero, c’mon…” Duo attempts, eyes plastered to the sickening imprint of his own hands.

“Not. Happening,” Heero states flatly, folding his arms across his chest.

Duo tosses up his hands in frustration, stalking past Heero into the center of the room. His eyes light on the box tucked beneath his bed, corner just barely visible beneath the dangling blanket. It’s the box he desperately hopes Heero will never find, because he doesn’t relish explaining to Heero why he owns a riding crop when he never engages in horseback riding. However… he casts a furtive look over his shoulder, finding Heero staring stubbornly at the wall, and drops to one knee beside the bed. Nudging the top off of the box, he slips slender fingers inside and brushes past a few objects. Slick, buttery soft leather meets his grasping hands and he pulls out the slender cuffs, smiling fondly as he secures the lid once more. Drawing himself to his feet, he toes the box further under the bed and clears his throat.

Heero spins on heel to face him, mouth set in an unyielding line, jaw set for an argument. He holds up his hands, dangling a leather bracelet from each palm. “They’ll cover your wrist. They won’t hinder movement.”

“May I?” Heero asks. At Duo’s approving nod, he moves forward, gliding into Duo’s space. The leather falls into his palm and he flexes it between his fingers, examining the stainless steel buckle and the ring that would tuck neatly into the strap when around his wrist. He hands the cuff back to Duo, a thoughtful expression on his face.

It’s a combination of puzzlement and curiosity that Duo has seen before, indicating that Heero is processing something beyond the obvious conversation in the room. _Oh, if he had any idea…_ And he has to clench his fists on a surge of desire as acceptance dawns in Heero’s eyes. His partner turns his wrists upward and offers them to him, an eerie knowledge in his level stare.

Duo draws in a deep breath, steadying himself, and wraps the leather around one set of bruises. He buckles the cuff quickly, ignoring Heero’s softly indrawn breath as his fingers brush the sensitive pulse point. Fastening the other cuff, he checks Heero’s fingertips for circulation, jerking his hands away when Heero’s nails curl instinctively into his palms.

_Fuck, I hope I make it through this without fucking up. I need to get laid. And not by him._

He peers up through his bangs, assessing Heero’s mood, and nearly loses his balance as his knees liquefy. Heero’s face is a mask of serenity, the same blissful peace that he wears in the wake of a bout with the razorblade. Duo has seen it enough times to recognize it. Loss of control, willing surrender… _submission_ , his mind whispers, and he yanks himself away from the heat of Heero’s body.

“I need to get ready,” he snarls, and urges Heero out of the bedroom before his hands act without his consent.

Alone in the room, he drags a hand through his bangs and fights down a scream of frustration. The list of reasons not to drag Heero into the bedroom and fuck him into kingdom come is becoming considerably shorter, but top of that list is one bloodstained night in the hospital and Heero’s desperate grip on his fingers as they led him away to surgery. 


	2. Drive and Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the war, the Gundam pilots have joined Preventers. They form a special ops team that is the Preventers' last resort, the last line of defense. A line of nightclubs across the ESUN and the colonies sits in the center of a deadly drug ring and weapons manufacturing operation. The pilots are sent in to investigate, only to discover that the people they need to catch are involved in a different sort of club, one with a distinctly darker theme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay! But this chapter is almost 6100 words, so I hope that makes up for it at least a little bit. Enjoy.

_Good morning, Mr. Yuy. How are you feeling today?_

Fine.

_Fine isn’t a feeling. We’ve discussed this before. How are you feeling?_

…indifferent.

_Indifferent toward what? Your job? Your peers? Your coworkers?_

Yes.

_That wasn’t a yes or no question, Mr. Yuy._

If I feel indifferent toward all of those groups, the answer is yes.

_I see. Why are you feeling indifferent toward your job?_

It’s just a job.

_Is it? Then why not get a different job? A less dangerous one, perhaps. I’m sure your skills could translate to a number of other careers._

It’s what I’m good at.

_Don’t you think it reflects on your character that this job is what you perceive as being your talent? Undercover, secrecy, constant stress, occasional job-related deaths..._

I am a soldier. It is what I am good at.

_Very well. How have you been doing with your anxiety? The medical staff reports fewer incidences of panic attacks and a significant decrease in self-injury._

The reports are accurate.

_So you are feeling better?_

Better is a subjective term.

_Let me rephrase. Are you feeling more in control of your anxiety?_

I … I have help.

_Someone is helping you control the panic attacks?_

Yes.

_Would that be, let me see, a Mr. Maxwell, the one who reported your suicide attempt?_

Yes.

_He’s also your partner at Preventers, is he not? You need to be careful not to become too dependent on him. You can isolate yourself if you are not monitoring your socializing. Would you consider a different partner?_

Absolutely not.

_I understand that you have strong emotions about this issue, but-_

With all due respect, Doctor, this is not negotiable.

_You don’t often have such an intense opinion on issues brought up in these sessions. Is your relationship with your partner something that you would like to discuss?_

No.

_Why is that?_

It’s private. I don’t discuss it with anyone.

_Have you spoken to Mr. Maxwell about this?_

No… Duo and I don’t talk about it either.

 

* * *

 

Heero perches on the edge of the couch, his foot jittering restlessly. He touches one of the cuffs around his wrist, the weight of the leather comforting against his skin. Heat rises in his chest as the ghost of Duo’s touch flutters across his pulse, tracing the mottled bruises. His fingertip grazes up his forearm, following the path that a razor once cleared. He’d found that courage once, and not again, the strength to bow beneath the weight of a war-cleansed world. There was no place for him, no place but as Duo’s protector.

Duo had saved him, deeply entrenched within despair. It had been Duo’s face that burst into his vision as his sight was failing, as blood leaked steadily from weary veins. It had been Duo’s solid voice, unstrung with grief, that called him back from the edge, that sung him back into the hospital room and the twenty-seven stitches straggling up each arm.

Duo kept him secure, had pulled him back from the cliff of innumerable panic attacks. Knew just when to brush a steadying touch across his hand, his shoulder, the small of his back. Woke from a dead sleep to drag Heero kicking and screaming from a nightmare. Would crawl into bed with him as the terror sweat dried on his skin, as his heart threatened to burst from his chest, as his pulse raced violently against his veins, and curl himself around Heero’s body until the trembling ceased.

Duo never let him return the favor. He always seemed so intense, so impenetrable. He never relied on anyone except himself, never needed saving. Last night, Heero had walked in when he was at his breaking point, when he was inches away from having a partially broken hand. Heero knew that expression, the half-wild shine in his eyes, the frantic movements of his muscles. When Heero panicked, he hurt himself. When Duo panicked, he hurt others. And he gave Duo someone to hurt, something to hold onto until it broke.

The strength of Duo’s fingers around his wrists, the sinfully delightful feeling of his bones creaking beneath super-heated skin. A wave of pleasure had swept through him as he gave in, as he surrendered to the wrap of pain around his fragile collection of wrist bones. Duo still ran when he couldn’t handle something – so when he fled into the bathroom, leaving bruises flooding to the surface of Heero’s skin, Heero knew something was wrong.

And that brought them to right now, to Duo striding confidently out of the bedroom skintight black jeans and a tight purple t-shirt that set off his eyes. To Duo’s eyes catching on the leather at his wrists and sweeping up his body with a predatory grin. A reckless shiver wracks Heero’s frame, and he steps into Duo’s space as he approaches.

“Like what you see?” Heero murmurs quietly.

He turns his back on Duo’s stunned expression, sliding into the passenger seat of their Preventer-purchased vehicle. It’s a pretty thing, massive and black, with bullet-proof glass and tires. It’s the vehicle that they take on missions, giving them a reason for the host of modifications and technology crammed into the large frame. Duo does most of the work himself, not trusting the mechanics at Preventers to do a suitable job. In his eyes (and Heero’s as well), if he can fix a Gundam he can damn well get a run of the mill suv to comply.

And as Duo misses piloting the most, Duo is the one who hops into the driver’s seat any time they take the Beast out. Of course Duo named their vehicle. And he talked to it just like he used to talk to Deathscythe.

Today he slips in, unusually silent, eyes trained on Heero. Heero offers him a ‘nothing to see here’ smile and tips his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. The weight of Duo’s gaze lays heavy over Heero’s body for a moment before the engine rumbles to life. He hears Duo’s soft sigh of exasperation and then the vehicle is in motion. Heero drifts into an easy doze, comforted by the safety of his partner at his side.

 

* * *

 

Heero wakes to the thump of bass through the floorboards of the Beast. He rubs the grit from his eyes and glances over at Duo, whose closed-off expression indicates an intense dislike of the situation.

“Status?” he grunts.

Duo flicks a glance at him as he parks the car in an impossibly tight space, squeezing the massive vehicle in without a scratch. “We’re headin’ in blind. They’re scanning for weapons at the front door. The ceramic’ll pass but the guns won’t.”

“Your hands are equal or superior to any weapon they are likely to have. And as you said, they won’t notice the knives,” Heero observes quietly, eyeing the flashy exterior of the club.

Spotlights sweep the crowded street, lined with vehicles as ostentatious as the club itself. Flickers of neon glow in puddles beneath the modded cars, light the stilettos and boots of the cream of society flooding through the front doors. _Firefly_ scrolls beside the front door in an elegant script, flanked by pinpricks of light that flash in an imitation of the club’s namesake. Two massive guards hover by the entrance, clad in tailored and perfectly fitted suits. The jackets are cut carefully enough that he can’t be certain, but Heero would bet that there are shoulder holsters on both men.

The line of people waiting for entrance stretches around the block, glitter shimmering from the fabric of the women’s dresses, the shine of leather reflecting on boots and the occasional skirt or pants leg. Heero’s eyes narrow as he considers the flow of traffic, how only a slow trickle of people creeps past the entrance.

“How will we get in?” he asks, looking to Duo for a solution.

Duo flashes him a cocky grin, shifting a piece of hair from Heero’s face with a delicate flick of his fingers. “No worries, ‘Ro. I’ll get us in. An’ I’m sure Tro’s waiting in there with Quat.”

True to his word, Duo strides up to the front door like he owns the club, a mouth-watering swagger in his step. Heero lingers behind him, glaring at the masses of people surrounding them. One of the bouncers extends a hand, barring the door, and points at the end of the line. Duo slips into his space, placing one hand casually on the arm of his expensive suit. The other hand rests lightly on the man’s chest as he leans in, standing on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.

Heero can’t fathom what magic his partner utters in the space of only a few seconds, but Duo returns to his side with a ‘cat got the cream’ smile. The man makes a gesture at his companion, a filthy leer on his face, and they part like a sea to let Heero and Duo pass. Heero reaches out instinctively and grabs Duo’s wrist as the heat and noise beyond the threshold swamps him.

The pounding of the bass reverberates up through his shoes, the music vibrating in his bones. The seed of a headache forms behind his eyes, expanding with every discordant hiss from the speakers. People press in around him from all sides, and panic rises in him like a crimson tide. Heero’s fingers spasm around Duo’s arm and the braided man spins to face him, cupping his face in a callused palm.

“Shh. Focus on me, Heero. You can do this. Hush. Look at me.”

Duo’s voice, strong and penetrating, anchors him. Duo’s hands, fierce and capable, settle against his cheekbones, returning him to the present. He inhales slowly, the breath hitching in anxiety-compressed lungs. Duo leans in, pressing a searing kiss to Heero’s forehead, a benediction.

“Got your back, ‘Ro. Come with me.”

He holds out his hand, quiet but commanding, and Heero clasps his palm against his partner’s. Duo weaves through the crowd, the shade of danger around him clearing the people from his path. Heero follows in his wake, an obedient shadow, basking in the security of Duo’s protection. Cleared of panic, his brain finally switches into mission mode and clicks through observations of the room. Luckily for him, the Doctor J trained part of his brain is always active, cataloguing and observing even as the majority of his brain sprints on a terror-fueled wheel. He brings The Soldier to the forefront, head tilting as he flips through the bar’s interior.

DJ in the corner, surrounded by equipment. Stage front and center, cluttered with instruments, indication of a live band yet currently vacant. A suspended cat-walk, interlaced with dangling cages, filled to the brim and swaying with the undulating bodies of hundreds of alcohol-fueled females. Bars round each corner of the room, swarmed by flailing hands and brandished dollar bills. A raised section in the corner, lined with tables and subtle flashes of wealth, where Duo aims his steps. A velvet rope halts them, and Duo gestures toward the uniformed man guarding the rope’s clip. He points over the man’s shoulder, where Trowa reclines on a leather couch with Quatre posed carefully by his knees. Quatre sits bolt upright, seemingly vaguely uncomfortable in his fitted pants and snug silken shirt. He lifts his hand in a hesitant wave, and the man unsnaps the rope to let them pass.

Duo shines his favorite devil-may-care smile in Heero’s direction as he glides through, yanking Heero beside him. They tumble together onto the couch adjacent to their fellow pilots’, Heero sprawling uneasily over Duo’s legs. Duo stretches himself along the butter-soft black leather, rearranging Heero until he is draped across Duo’s hips, feet still on the floor, spine tracing Duo’s abdomen, shoulders pressed against the back of the couch. It’s not a comfortable position, but it’s no less stressful than the cramped confines of a Gundam’s cockpit. And then there’s the heat of Duo’s hand at his hip, tracing the line of flesh where his shirt rides up, and the intoxicating sensation sedates him. It’s a near-tipsy giddiness that floods him with each absent stroke of Duo’s fingertips, and he edges eagerly closer to the braided man, eyes half-closing in pleasure.

“Trowa. Quatre.” Duo words wash over him, hypnotic and serene, and he drifts in a fog of contentment. Their murmured replies only vaguely register, until Duo’s stern voice jerks him abruptly into awareness.

“Observations?”

Trowa speaks up, his melodic voice almost a purr. It resonates with the rhythm of the music, swaying among the treble and bass. “No sightings of the club owner. Bartenders have concealed weapons beneath their stations. All bouncers are armed. Back offices guarded – no one entering or exiting.”

He nods to Quatre, who folds his hands neatly on his lap, smoothing an invisible crease in his pants. “The employees are relaxed yet aware. There is no current danger, no high level of tension that would indicate a change in schedule. The crowd is picked at random from the line of guests outside. Only a minor percentage seems to have access to the bartenders’ stash. Drug transactions are quiet but not entirely secretive – if people know to ask, there is not a rigorous approval process.”

Heero’s keen eyes scan the room, lighting on the nearest bar. As he watches, a person nonchalantly indicates something with a gesture of his hand. The bartender raises an eyebrow, the guest passes over a roll of bills, and the bartender ducks beneath the bar. A small packet is pushed into the customer’s hand, and money and packet both vanish.

“That’s a significant amount of money. Are they selling single-use or providing narcotics to dealers?”

Quatre shrugs, his attention switching to Duo. Their observation skills are flawless, but aimed toward certain specific areas. Trowa maps out security details, camera sweeps, defensive weaknesses. Quatre notes social patterns, levels of stress in an area, pockets of tension. Duo picks up on the underpinnings, the black market dealings, the illicit liaisons, the drug trades and weapons deals. They can and do overlap, but tend to default to whoever is generally the most accurate in regards to whatever information they’re seeking. Serenity falls under Duo’s jurisdiction.

Duo props himself up on one elbow, rubs his hands together. Heero shifts restlessly, a twist of loneliness wafting through him at the loss of the braided man’s touch.

“Alright. Tro, I want ya to wander, see if anyone is bein’ turned away by the dealers, if security is watchin’ for tweakers and bad trips.  If they get kicked out for causin’ a ruckus. Quat, try to get a handle on the vibe of the club – if we’ve got druggies or partiers or both. I dunno if this is a drug front or a legit club, so that’ll help. ‘Ro, infiltration’s all you. Get ta the higher ups. Find a way in.”

They nod, accepting their roles. It’s not unusual for Duo to take point on drug-related missions, especially since he is so intense and mission-focused when his past is actually useful. Although he never mentions it, Heero surmises that he is determined to prove that he can succeed because of his dubious upbringing, rather than in spite of it. He might call L2 a ‘rat-infested shithole’, but it is _his_ rat-infested shithole. It’s the only home Duo ever knew, as far as Heero is aware – and he wants L2 to be worth something. Even if that something is the reason why Duo is so damn good at pretending to be a drug runner and street thug.

Quatre rises from the couch, moving a little stiffly. He’s much better suited for undercovers that involve corporate espionage, investigating  the complicated tangles of corrupted corporate monopolies. Places he can wear suits and wring the Winner name dry of every ounce of influence. Places like this, that don’t notice his name or the well-bred way he carries himself, leave him off-balance and unsettled. Trowa will have to stay by him, Heero muses. He’s exuding vulnerability, painting a target upon his own head. And Duo notices. He notices everything, his manic energy the perfect mask for the encompassing breadth of his gaze.

“Quat, drop the babyface. You’re gonna get pounced on an’ dragged off ta some alley. Tro, don’t let him outta your sight. He’s got ‘roofie me’ written all over him,” Duo snaps, annoyance creeping into his tone.

It’s not often that Duo’s irritation leaks into his voice – only on cases that involve drugs, that inevitably end in deceased children. That’s Duo’s rough spot. And Heero’s… well, Heero has more triggers than he can count. Being without Duo. Being helpless. Being torn open and displayed to the world like a carnival act. The mere thought of it makes him itchy, makes his skin begin to crawl. Goosebumps rise on his skin, the noise of the club roaring in his ears. A sharp swat across his arm snaps him back.

“Heero, get your shit together. Seriously. I need ya to have my back. Keep your head in the game or I’ll leave you behind.”

A flush covers Heero’s high cheekbones, and he is thankful that their comrades have already dispersed into the swell of the crowd. It’s bad enough that Duo is standing in front of him, hands planted firmly on his hips, with that expression in his eyes that says _my partner is being a crazy fuck-up again._

“I’m sorry Duo,” he whispers, willing sincerity into his voice.

Duo’s face softens, and he clamps a hand down on Heero’s shoulder. He squeezes until it hurts, until Heero’s eyes gloss over with the first hints of tranquility, and then releases. “Shit, ‘Ro, it’s fine. I jus’ can’t afford ta be losin’ ya when you gotta back me up.”

 

* * *

 

Duo moves into the throng of dancers, threading his way toward what appears to be the most active bar. Heero trails behind him, watching the graceful way he weaves through the mass, envious of the effortless beauty of his movements. Duo would sneer at him for thinking it, but Heero finds the man to be a work of art, a masterpiece in motion. He would kill to have even a fraction of the elegance that his partner has.

A hand on his shoulder pauses him just long enough for Duo to slide between two dancers and get swallowed in the swarm. His eyes narrow dangerously as he wrenches the grasping digits away from his skin. The offending owner misses the hint by miles, skulking close enough that the alcohol on his breath wafts over Heero’s face.

“Hey baby. You wanna dance?” He slurs, wavering on his feet.

“No.”

“Oh c’mon sweetness. Don’t be such a hardass,” he continues, patting the air near Heero’s back.

Heero agilely dodges the grasping appendage, snarling low in his chest in warning. His fingers twitch, itching to reach for a gun that he knows isn’t there. He throws a futile squint over the heads of the mass, hoping against logic that he’ll spot a familiar chestnut braid. The spotlights blind him, leaving specks dancing against his eyelids with every blink, and he rubs furiously at his face as he backs unseeingly away from the drunken stranger.

Another person bumps into him from behind, and he stumbles up against a sleek, leather-clad body. Panic rises in his chest, tightening around his ribs. His pulse skyrockets, pounding against his bones in a vain attempt to leap free. Sweat beads at his temples, pupils dilating until every sweep of the spotlight bursts like sharpened stars against his eyes. Blood pounds in his ears, a deafening whoosh that smothers even the heavy heartbeat of the techno. His knees begin to buckle, instinctively driving him toward the ground and a safe fetal position, and he locks out his legs in an attempt to keep standing. Breath sounds, panting and short, from his strangled throat, and all he can see is the press of dance-slicked skin surrounding him.

“Duo,” he gasps out, throat closing around the choked word.

The room begins to spin, a slow revolution that sweeps the feet out from under him. He crumbles toward the ground, floor rushing up to meet him at an alarming speed. Just as the room begins to soften with static, arms wrap around his constricted ribs and haul him upright. The world is vibrating, and it takes him a moment to register that the person holding him vertical is growling, noise feral and toxic, curses spit between gritted teeth. He slumps against his rescuer, burying his nose in the v of his shirt, inhaling the faint scent of cinnamon and metal that constantly lingers around Duo’s skin. Arms wrap around him, velvet-sheathed steel, and squeeze with the pressure that he needs to recover.

When he finally tilts his chin away from the damp heat of Duo’s flesh, a circle is cleared out around them. Shinigami is out in force, and Duo is fairly radiating violence. His violet eyes are nearly black with fury, body language screaming for a fight. Heero shoots a weak smile upward, a grin that rapidly fades at the grimace marring Duo’s usually pretty features.

Duo aims his glare down at Heero, releasing him from the sphere of his arms. Heero staggers a touch at the loss, managing to steady himself without the aid of Duo’s belatedly offered hand.

“Fuck, ‘Ro. I’m gonna hafta fuckin’ collar you or some shit to keep you out of trouble on this mission. I mean I know you’re pretty and all but, Jesus, I can’t leave you alone for three seconds without some asshole putting his hands on you and fucking you up,” Duo grumbles, still rough with anger.

Confusion clears some of the anxiety from Heero’s brain. “Collar me?”

A touch of shock shimmies onto Duo’s face before he covers it with a heated glance, one that stirs Heero from tip to toes. “Yes. So that you and ev’ryone ‘round here knows that you’re _mine_.”

“Y-yours? Like… no one can touch me?”

“Damn right no one could touch you. That means that you have my back because I’ll have your ass if you don’t. That means if anyone fuckin’ touches you other than me, I’ll beat the shit out of them and then I’ll take you home and beat the shit out of you,” Duo snarls.

Heero bristles at the near-threat. “You wouldn’t dare.”

A peculiar smile flits across Duo’s face. “You’d like it.”

Heero opens his mouth, a protest dying on his lips as Trowa ghosts past them. Quatre lingers in his shadow, pale and shaken, and Duo immediately fixates on him. He hooks his hand around Trowa’s upper arm, stands on tiptoe to mutter fiercely in his ear.

_He gets so intense when he’s on point on a case… so protective._

Duo returns to his side, hand dropping to nestle in the small of his back. A shiver skitters over his skin at the casual intimacy of the touch, latching all of his focus onto that tiny point of contact. He steers them to a back corner, letting Quatre slip between the table and the wall, in the most secluded and defensive chair around the high table. Snagging a passing waiter, he orders a round of tequila, waiting until the woman saunters away before he pins his attention on Trowa.

“Tro, what the fuck happened?”

Trowa has the good sense to seem slightly abashed, placing a comforting touch on Quatre’s shuddering arm. The boy is strung tight with tension, muscles clenched and quivering with every panting breath. His eyes are wide, pupils blown open with fear, darting around the room as if expecting assault.

“He told me he was going to the bathroom. I could see and easily access the door from my location, and also had a bead on a conversation about the owner of the club, so I figured he would be safe. When he didn’t come back promptly, I went in after him. Apparently the people around here do not accept negative answers to their invitations.”

His tone is deceptively placid, though Heero can sense the undercurrent of danger like a riptide. He’d bet on the bathroom being a massacre of blood spray and unconscious bodies. Unconscious, if they were lucky; dead, if Trine had emerged. So he asks, trying to assess the likelihood of pursuit.

“Trine?”

A minute shake of his head is all the answer Heero needs. Trine remained dormant, so Quatre’s attackers were fortunate enough to escape with their lives. However… he darts a glance at a group of approaching men, shifting his body enough that Duo notices. The pilots flow into motion, a uniform movement that almost appears choreographed as they rotate their bar stools in unison to face the newcomers. Brain flanked by muscle, Heero assesses, eyeing the lean man framed by the two massive creatures. The man in the middle, like the bouncers, has an impeccably cut suit. Tall and lanky, he’s built similarly to Trowa, hair smoothed back into a long tail that trails over his shoulder.

He smiles warmly at them – trying to be reassuring, Heero assumes, though the grimace just appears aggressive. Duo answers the thinly veiled threat with an arrogant smirk, the expression stretching lazily across his face. Seeing the challenge, the man extends his hand to Duo.

“Enjoying your evening? The name’s Evans. Your friend here seems to have had a little…incident in one of the bathrooms.” The man’s voice has the type of smooth, cultured silkiness that drags Heero’s hackles upright. He catches his lip curling in an instinctive snarl and fights down the impulse, deliberately neutralizing his body language.

“Maxwell,” Duo answers shortly. “Haven’t heard ‘bout this ‘incident,’ but I can tell ya that my friend here hadta beat some idiots offa his lover.”

“Yes, he ah, beat them most effectively. It’s not generally behavior that we condone in this club, but Master X has some sort of interest in you. If you would come with me…”

Duo raises an eyebrow, beginning to flick instructions at them with his fingertips. Evans’ eyes drop, capturing each tiny movement of Duo’s hands, and an irritating grin twitches into existence.

“That wasn’t an invitation, boys. And as for you, Maxwell, no point in signaling your comrades to attack me. We’re all armed,” the man crows triumphantly, knowing damn well that, thanks to the metal detectors, the guards have considerably more firepower.

Duo rakes a scathing glance over the trio, tips his head to indicate that, at least for now, the four of them should comply. After all, meeting the men in charge is the ultimate goal. The infiltration is supposed to be under their control, but being picky gets people killed.

 

* * *

 

The four ex-pilots are ushered into a back room, lit by recessed bulbs in the ceiling. The music is muted here, a quiet background thump, counters and barstools replaced by low, over-stuffed couches and stubby-legged coffee tables. A devastatingly attractive man reclines on one of the couches, arm tossed negligently over his eyes. Deep crimson hair spikes out from his scalp, bloody in the low light and brilliant against his pale skin.

Unlike most of his employees, the man is clad in a pair of sweetly fitted jeans and a torso-hugging buttondown. Heero swallows slightly at the sight of the ‘enemy,’ thanking the stars for the anchoring influence of Duo at his side. This stranger radiates sensuality, from his well-muscled body, decadently stretched in a provocative display, to the face that is revealed as his arm drops down to his side.

His face would be a work of art if not marred by a scar that stretches from his right eyebrow almost to the corner of his sensually full lips. Brilliant emerald eyes rove over them, arrayed in an arrow with Duo at their point. He examines each of them carefully, lingering over-long on Quatre and Heero. Chills ripple over Heero’s skin as that gaze leisurely traces him, an approving glint flaring to life.

Heero drops his eyes, a flush rising on his high cheekbones. He has been judged and, perhaps, found wanting, and he fights the urge to beg for a second opinion. He stiffens his spine, tightening his joints until the ache centers him, and reminds himself that the only appraisal that matters is Duo’s.

“Who are you?” The man inquires, voice low and unassuming.

Duo chuckles under his breath, cracks a snotty grin. “Why doncha tell us whatcha know and we’ll tell ya if it’s correct.”

“I know that the tall one assaulted a few of my regulars in the bathroom. I know that both of your pretty friends have attracted a great deal of attention that you don’t appreciate. I know that you have with you the only pilot to ever successfully engage the ZERO system. Is that enough?”

Duo merely grunts in response, his fists twitching at the ‘pretty friends’ reference. Anyone who had access to Oz files would be aware of the ZERO testing and the somewhat unorthodox response it provoked in most of its test pilots. No one would ever call ZERO a rousing victory, but Heero had managed to compromise with the system enough that he could function with it. If Heero without the system was a phenomenal pilot, Heero linked into ZERO became a flawless one.

And yes, ZERO still caused shivers of dread down his spine. ZERO was – is, to this day – his worst nightmare. ZERO wasn’t just a machine. ZERO was a flashback of everything he’d ever done, good and bad, and an analysis of precisely how bad or good each action was. ZERO was every shameful, guilt-ridden moment played back across his eyelids in Technicolor, every instant he’d ever tried to forget being dragged into the light of day and plastered across a life-size IMAX screen.

At the same time, ZERO was… perfection. Was the Gundam moving in such impossibly synchronicity that he couldn’t tell where his consciousness ended and the machine began. ZERO was the sensation of a multi-ton machine responding to his intentions rather than his hands. ZERO was beautiful. Fucking gorgeous. Was such an unbelievable experience that he knows he will spend the rest of his life trying to recreate the fluid grace of a mecha meshed directly into his brain. He hadn’t been truly alive since ZERO had left his head… and that terrified him.

What if he spent the remainder of his breaths feeling abandoned by a device so powerful that even the greatest evil of the past war feared to use it?

“What do you want?” The man asks, effortlessly rising to a seated position.

“A new cause,” Duo answers.

“I find that suspicious, considering that the Gundam pilots refused to align themselves with any specific faction during the war,” he observes, steepling his hands in front of his face.

They exchange a glance, and Quatre lifts one shoulder in an imperceptible shrug. He does have a point, the gesture indicates. It’s Heero who finally responds, forcing himself to meet the red-haired man’s penetrating stare.

“We’re soldiers. Now that the war is over, we have three options. Civilian, Preventers, or underground networks. We were not bred to be civilians, and we are notoriously terrible at following the laws. I’m sure you’ve heard us called terrorists. You’re the best-organized and most wide-spread of the black market organizations. Are you telling us that you don’t need our help?”

The man eases himself to his feet, uncoiling in an uncanny display of feral elegance. He stalks around the group as Duo and Trowa, anger smoldering on their faces, glare holes in the side of his head. Pausing by Heero’s side, he draws a finger across the leather cuff at Heero’s wrist. A pleased, covetous flame leaps in his emerald gaze as Heero shudders helplessly, captivated by the dominance flooding off of the man.

“No, I’m not saying that at all. I would especially welcome your particular… skills,” he purrs.

Heero closes his eyes, fighting his body’s automatic response. He clenches his nails into his palms, digging in until blood trickles over his fingertips to stain his cuticles. The pain only whets his hunger, libido yearning for the barely leashed danger of the man next to him. He sways on his feet, ashamed of his vulnerability, but utterly unable to restrain his reactions.

“Enough,” Duo bites out, teeth gritted around the word.

He forces himself between Heero and the red-haired man, and Heero leans his forehead gratefully against Duo’s back. The braided man reaches between them, hooking a finger through the leather cuff around Heero’s wrist. He twists his hand slightly, compressing the pulse, and Heero’s blood leaps in response.

“Are you interested or not, Mr…?” Duo trails off, not bothering to conceal his disdain.

“You may call me Xavier, if you must call me something. I suppose the four of you come as a package?” Xavier sighs heavily, returning to the couch, amusement lessened with the barrier between himself and his intended toy.

“Are you interested or not?” Duo repeats, impatience dripping from the question.

Xavier waves a hand vaguely, indicating the door. “I’ll have to consult with the others. Return in a day or so and I’ll have your answer.” Duo nods curtly, turns to leave. He nudges Heero roughly, herding him toward the door. “Oh, and don’t forget to bring the submissive one back. He’s quite delightful.”

 

* * *

 

Duo unlocks the Beast with a snap of his fingers, the key squeezed between his fingers. Heero is surprised that the plastic doesn’t crack beneath the strain. He brushes a caress over Duo’s bicep, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“Duo, who is the submissive one?”

Duo laughs incredulously. He raises an eyebrow and levels a significant stare at Heero, raking his eyes over the lines of Heero’s body. Heero snorts indignantly, shaking his head in negative.

“I am absolutely _not_ submissive. I wouldn’t have survived the war if I’d rolled over and played dead whenever someone gave me an order. If, by some queer stroke of fate, I’d ever been submissive, J would have trained it out of me when he was teaching me how to survive torture. Orders barked over the prongs of a taser would be more than enough for someone with that sort of inclination to crumble,” Heero hisses at him, snarling at the reminder of J’s agonizing training.

A lazy, beautifully arrogant smile rolls over Duo’s lips. Heero’s cock stirs with interest, spiking his irritation. “I’m. _Not._ Submissive,” he growls.

Heero doesn’t see Duo move, but suddenly he is pressed from tailbone to nape against the sleek metal side of their suv, the steel of Duo’s body slamming into the front of him. Duo’s hand stretches across his collarbones, applying just enough pressure for Heero to struggle with a full inhale. His face, alight with playful cruelty, hovers inches from Heero’s, close enough for his breath to ghost over Heero’s lips. Heero wedges his hand between them and shoves, trying to pry Duo off of him.

Duo’s hand slides to the base of his skull, gripping the nape of his neck, and gives him a hard, sharp shake. A snarl rumbles out of his chest, reverberating into Heero. He bares his teeth, steps back a touch, and pins Heero to the vehicle with a hand in the center of his chest. Heero’s body is shaking, swaying like palm trees in a hurricane-force gale. His knees are watery, quivering with each gasping breath, and Duo’s grip is the only reason he’s standing.

Duo’s eyes glow with an intensity that is utterly foreign to Heero, but is no less intoxicating for being unknown. His lips part, forming a single word as he releases his grip.

“Kneel,” he commands, in a roll of deadly thunder.

Heero’s knees hit the pavement before he processes the order, and he finds himself folded at Duo’s feet, head pressed against his partner’s thigh. His breath comes in straggling gulps, lungs fighting with his racing pulse. Duo’s hand comes to rest on his head, caressing his silken brown hair, and peace steals over him.

“Told you so,” Duo murmurs, a note of pride in the words.

With the drifting haze of serenity fogging his mind, Duo’s fingers laced possessively through his hair, Heero can’t find the words to disagree.


	3. Dependency or Paranoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the war, the Gundam pilots have joined Preventers. They form a special ops team that is the Preventers' last resort, the last line of defense. A line of nightclubs across the ESUN and the colonies sits in the center of a deadly drug ring and weapons manufacturing operation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM NOT A FAILURE TODAY. Have an update! Unfortunately, I'm going to be working on an Extreme Big Bang Challenge for the next ten months, so SiC will update rarely, if at all. I'm so, so sorry. I'll try to get an update out once a month or so, but I can't make any promises. :/

_Agent… Reaper, is it?_

Uh huh. That’s me.

_I would like to talk about your report from the reconnaissance mission._

K. What about it?

_It says in the report that your partner, an Agent Wing, and another member of your team, an Agent Storm, were compromised over the course of the evening._

‘Compromised’ makes ‘em sound incompetent. Heero – Wing – gets freaked out when he can’t beat the shit out of people who touch ‘im. When we get shipped off with orders to lay low, it means he hasta play nice and not pull guns on idiots who don’t take no for an answer. Y’all have it on record that he has panic attacks. This shouldn’t be news to ya. An’ Quat, bless his heart, doesn’t have the balls to tell someone to fuck off. So Tro’ – that’s Steel, in th’ report – had to roll in an’ drag his ass outta there.

_I’m a little concerned that a Special Operations team had so many issues on a simple information gathering mission._

The fuck you tryin’ ta say? Clubs, drug dealers, that’s my scene. You shouldn’t’ve sent in four people ta do a job that one coulda handled just fine.

_Clearly Chief Agent Une felt it necessary to dispatch the entire team. However, in light of the difficulties, perhaps a different group would be better suited._

Let me be perfectly clear with ya. We’re damaged, not useless. You’re not gonna find a team that will fix this faster or with less mess. I can guarantee ya that the only casualties, if any, would be us.

_That’s not particularly reassuring, Agent._

I’m not ‘sposed to make ya feel better. But I’m telling ya straight up that the job will get done, the job will get done right, and ya won’t need any body bags. Can any other team promise you that?

_Other teams are not your concern. Now, you recommend in the report that it would be advantageous for yourself and Agent Wing and for Agents Steel and Storm to pose as partners for the remainder of the mission. Why is that?_

No one will question me beating the fuck out of someone puttin’ hands on my lover. It’s that simple. Tro’ an’ I can protect ‘Ro and Quat with no one questioning it if we make it clear that they’re ours.

_Is that wise? You are reportedly extremely close to Agent Wing on a personal level, and the Preventers agency frowns on fraternizing between agents, particularly those on Special Operations teams._

If you’re tryin’ ta suggest that I can’t keep my dick in my pants, don’t worry about it. I don’t fuck loose cannons.

_Is that what you would call Agent Wing? A ‘loose cannon’?_

Aren’t we all? He’s a damn good agent and a damn good partner, and that’s all ya really need to concern yourself with.

_Speaking of your partner… you used some strong language in regards to the club owner’s interactions with Agent Wing._

 He was lookin’ at Heero like he was a piece of meat or somethin’. The last thing we need is someone on the team bein’ compromised.

_You seem to be the closest to Agent Wing. Do you think this is a risk we should be concerned about?_

If I’m with him, no. Nothin’ is gonna happen to my partner under my watch. I’m just gonna hafta tell ‘em that they get me too or we both walk.

_And protecting him won’t distract from your mission?_

Nah. I’m used ta havin’ his back. He’s my partner. We take care of each other. No man left behind an’ all that happy crap.

_I’m going to tentatively approve the plan moving forward, but Lady Une will have the final say in the decision._

I hear ya.

 

* * *

 

 Duo closes the door to the debriefing room gently, not wanting to inform the irritating Internal Affairs agent that that he’d gotten beneath a former Gundam pilot’s skin. He rubs at his gritty eyes, product of a lengthy and sleepless night. They’d been called in early to report and debrief, and it had been nothing but meetings and discussions all day. If there is something that Duo hates more than anything, it’s being held captive in a blank-walled room while people talk at him. Worse than that is when they expect _him_ to talk… but no, he can’t talk like he’s accustomed to, he has to be all proper and watch his mouth. And yes, he does consider a sentence with only one curse word proper. He is quite proud of his ability to string together half a dozen swears and still have a coherent sentence.

He rolls his eyes, glancing down the hallway toward the medical ward. In the light of the mission events, Heero and Quatre are being evaluated to decide whether they are mentally suited to continue the mission. Heero in particular, since he is medicated due to his depression and anxiety. Heero always does okay with these discussions … it’s probably not ethical, but Duo has spent a great deal of time coaching Heero in order to keep him out of the psych ward. Heero doesn’t need a hospital, he needs a safe space and a person he can trust behind the doors of his home. A hospital full of strangers would be a nightmare for the former Wing pilot.

So Heero will probably walk out in a few hours with a new prescription, will come straight to Duo to sit down and discuss side effects. And Duo will reassure him that the medication will help, will send it in to the Preventers’ pharmacy and then send Heero to bed. Poor Heero. The debriefing takes more out of him than the mission, even when the mission results in broken bones.

He starts to turn toward his office, toward the mound of paperwork scattered across his desk, to the unanswered phone calls from people wanting his advice on explosives or stealth work or drug-related missions. The tension builds in his shoulders like a physical weight until he shakes his head, pulling out his phone to advise his team and the other pilots that he’s just going to head home.

He didn’t sleep well last night, flattened against his sheets as the events of the recon mission played in beautiful, horrifying Technicolor across the ceiling. Turning around to see a wall of people where Heero was supposed to be, pushing through them to find Heero’s face milk white, body swaying alarmingly as a man tried to lay hands on him. His vision going red as anger flooded him, checked only by the reminder that he needed to be subtle and relatively unthreatening. Catching Heero as he collapsed toward the floor, the sensation of his partner’s body against his own. Shoving Heero away as his body began to react.

What a shitshow. And then finding out that Quatre had been attacked as well, that Trowa had beat the shit out of someone who had the balls to lay hands on his sometimes-lover. He glances at the Beast, black hulk gleaming in the parking lot, and then bounces from foot to foot to gauge his energy level. The house that he lives in with Heero is about twelve miles away – not far enough to be a nuisance of a drive, but a lengthy run if he’s not in the right headspace.

Today restlessness is seeping through his bones like a disease, leaving him jittery and unsettled. He hasn’t had a chance to process the entirety of what happened last night, has been avoiding thinking of Heero at all. Something changed in the space between receiving orders for the recon mission and coming home last night in stunned silence.

He viciously shakes his head, hopping in place for a moment to limber up muscles stiffened from so many meetings. He’ll run home, let the exercise clear the cobwebs from his mind, and then he’ll sit down and decide exactly what the fuck he is doing with his life. He shoves his braid down the back of his uniform jacket, flipping the collar up to cut the slight chill of the late afternoon wind. His body slips into motion, easily, remembering the flex and burn of muscles pushed to their limits fleeing from Oz troops.

As his body stirs, pulse humming in his veins, his brain stretches from the lethargy of mindless lecturing. It flicks through the memories of last night, pausing occasionally to flash a full-color recall of certain moments across the screen of his vision. He snarls to himself and propels his body forward, sweat already breaking out beneath his uniform shirt. Perhaps this isn’t the best outfit for running, but he doesn’t usually carry his work-out gear with him… and he can’t do anything right now but try to outrun himself.

 

* * *

 

Duo doesn’t hear the door shut, doesn’t hear the footsteps coming down the stairs. He’s dangling from the pull-up bar, relentlessly dragging his body up until his chest taps the bar, slowly lowering himself down again. His uniform lies abandoned in a heap by the door, stripped off when he stomped0 in, brain still rampaging merrily despite the heart-pounding run. His body is slicked with sweat, bare-chested, retaining decency only through the thin cotton shorts hanging precariously from his hips.

Heaving a sigh, he flips himself upside down, tucks his knees over the bar, and releases his hands. His braid trails to the floor as he uncoils, blood flooding to his head with the inversion. The muscles of his abdomen bunch as he tucks himself up toward his knees, hands laced together behind his braid.

A figure appears in the door as he finishes his second set, and he pauses at the bottom of his sit up to examine the person. Heero steps hesitantly into the room, glancing at the pile of clothing, eyeing his sweat-soaked body.

“Duo?”

He wraps hands around the bar, agilely flipping himself to the floor. Standing up, he smooths the fabric of his boxers and adjusts himself unselfconsciously.  Heero fidgets, a piece of paper clamped in his fists, eyes averted from Duo’s mostly nude form.

“Hey ‘Ro,” Duo answers quietly, almost ashamed of how weary his voice sounds. “How are the good doctors today?”

His answer is a half-hearted shrug, the paper extended toward Duo’s midriff. Duo tugs the paper gently from Heero’s grip, glancing over it. A higher dose of his anti-anxiety medication, a new panic medication. Heero will never carry that with him, so it will fall on Duo to stash it in the glove compartments and mission kits. The doctor’s messy scrawl is miniscule and cramped, but Duo’s eyes pick out ‘unstable’, ‘history of trauma’, and ‘close supervision recommended.’

“Did they send one o’ their cronies to watch ya?”

Heero glances behind himself nervously, fingers plucking at the seams of his regulation pants. He fiddles with a loose string for a moment before handing Duo a second piece of paper. It’s a request from Lady Une for a meeting as soon as possible, though request is a vague translation – no agent says no to the Lady, not even the notoriously rebellious Duo Maxwell. And, scrawled at the bottom, _Please take care of Heero, Duo. He needs your support._

Duo lets out his breath in a tiny huff, glancing up from the note. A twist of worry mars Heero’s face, his eyebrows twitched together in an anxious query. Duo wraps his arm around Heero’s elbow, pausing to gather up his clothing, and tows his partner up the stairs. Heero follows, placid, sitting stiffly at the kitchen table as Duo grabs the phone and calls in the new prescriptions.

“Your skittles won’t be ready ‘til tomorrow,” Duo informs Heero as he places the phone down on its cradle.

A tiny smile quirks the corner of Heero’s lips. He’s always amused when Duo calls his variety of psychotropic pills ‘skittles.’ Sometimes when he’s having a bad day, Duo will bring him home a bag of the fruity candies and they’ll take turns tossing them into the air and trying to catch them with their mouths.

“That’s better,” Duo says with an answering smile.

He puts on the kettle of hot water, pulling two mugs out of the cabinets and setting them down beside the stove. He drops a tea bag in one and pours the contents of a hot chocolate packet into the other, peeking into the teapot to check on the water. It’s not quite at a boil, and he taps his foot impatiently.

“Don’t forget my bear,” Heero’s voice floats into the room.

He doesn’t bother to hide his grin, as Heero can’t see it, and chuckles under his breath as he drags the bear-shaped honey container off the shelf. Heero refuses to use honey from normal-shaped jars – he says the bear makes them taste better. Duo’s always wondered why, but never remembers to ask.

“Heero, did you ever see Winnie the Pooh?” Duo calls curiously, sure that Heero has never heard of the archaic earth cartoon.

His eyes widen with shock as the teapot begins to whistle, and over the sharp noise he hears, “the wonderful thing about Tiggers, is Tiggers are wonderful things…”

 

* * *

 

He tries to sit up straight the next morning, uniform jacket wrapped tight around his shivering form. He tries, aware that Lady Une’s piercing stare is fixed on him, but his body seems determined to slip into its customary slump. His foot taps a staccato beat against the plush rug, fingers scratching restlessly at the wooden armrests of the chair. The Lady raises an eyebrow and he forces his body to stillness, unable to stop the minute twitch at the end of his fingertips.

“Tell me honestly, Agent Maxwell. How did the recon mission go?”

Duo drops his gaze, unashamed to falter beneath the cold steel of her eyes. He has not forgotten that not so long ago, she was threatening to destroy a colony. He has not forgotten that she is the reason he watched Heero self-destruct, the first time. He has not forgotten the hours of torture, delivered with sadistic glee by her orders. He will never sit easily beneath her command.

“It was a mess, Lady,” he begins quietly. “Heero had a panic attack ‘cause he couldn’t defend himself without giving us up. Quatre got attacked in the bathroom ‘cause he was left alone. He still can’t manage to put his hands on someone without a gun to his head, even when he should.”

“I read that in your reports. And Agent Barton defended Agent Winner, with a lack of control that is somewhat concerning.” She glances down at the sheaf of papers in her hand. “Tell me about the owner of the club.”

“His name is Xavier, but his lackeys call him Master X. He has a thing for Heero, apparently. He told us he had to speak to other people before he decided to tell us more, but he was aware of the ZERO system. Lady… ” He pauses, swallowing hard at the wave of terror that sweeps him. “If they want Heero to test it, I’m not sure that he can handle it.”

“We can cross that bridge if they build it, Agent Maxwell,” she reassures him, steepling her fingers on the desk. “In the meantime, I support your suggestion. You and Agent Yuy and Agents Barton and Winner will pose as couples, in order to facilitate protection and back-up. However, I expect to not see any further reports of violence initiated by either Agent Barton or yourself.”

“With all due respect, Ma’am…” he hesitates, watching her eyebrows raise slightly. He clears his throat. “With all due respect, I _will_ defend Heero if he is threatened. You can punish me when I do, and I won’t fight it. But I can’t sit there and see him get hurt.”

 

* * *

 

Midnight finds them tucked into a booth at the back of Firefly, sunk into the plush cushioning as the speakers ricochet music into their ears. A live band is playing, some sort of edgy rock, mohawked singer alternating between a throaty croon and a ear-splitting howl. Duo can’t decide which is worse, as he shifts restlessly on the edge of the seat. He scratches at the fabric of his jeans, crimson tonight, matching the deep red folds of Heero’s shirt. Heero sits stiffly, Duo’s arm draped casually about his waist, as if it’s a perfectly natural scenario. Never mind that the rigidity of Heero’s spine completely betrays his discomfort.

And Duo, forever tuned to the rhythms of his partner’s body, can feel Heero vibrating like a plucked guitar string, wound so tightly that he apt to snap at the first shock to his system. He lays a hand on Heero’s knee, forcing his own muscles to relax and stop telegraphing tension to his neurotic seat-mate.

Quatre is nearly as anxious as Heero, eyes flitting around the room, jumping at shadows. Trowa snugs an arm around his shoulders and deftly transfers Quatre to his lap. Quatre noticeably relaxes in the comfort of Trowa’s embrace, and not for the first time Duo wonders why they haven’t made their relationship official. They’re a good match, the clever businessman, grace of the Gundam pilots, and the effortless infiltrator, the retired acrobat.  God knows, Trowa was willing to use deadly force to protect Quatre, and had done it before.

Evans appears beside them, manifesting through the crowd with two massive men beside him. He beckons for their attention and then strides toward the back room, assuming that they will follow. Duo watches him go, a sneer on his face, before tipping his head in an indication that they should obey the summons.

As before, they line up as a united front, Duo and Trowa taking the forefront. Heero assumes his customary position by Duo’s side, one step back, glaring into the corners and shadows. Quatre stands nearly in Trowa’s shadow, a blond glint betraying his presence as he seeks strength from his partner’s deceptively casual stance. Duo folds his arms, the outwardly aggressive one, planting his feet solidly into the flooring and leveling a steady stare at Xavier.

Their host is seated on a couch, ankle resting casually on his knee, scarred face lit with calculated interest. His hand rests by his side, laced through the hair of a kneeling man. The man is folded beside Xavier’s knee, head bowed deferentially, hands left open on his thighs. The bronzed skin of his chest is exposed, his only covering a leather vest left to fall open. Silken fabric drapes in folds about his legs, cuffed at ankles and bound by a wide swath of fabric around his hips.

Xavier captures them in his attentive gaze, eyes once again arrowing straight to Heero. Duo sidesteps neatly, blocking Heero from sight, forcing Xavier to acknowledge him. The crimson haired man chuckles quietly, fingers moving absently across the scalp of his companion. The kneeling man murmurs quietly, leaning into his touch.

“Hello again, gentlemen,” Xavier greets them, tugging on the hair in his hand.

The man lifts his head, revealing a strikingly exotic face, eyes like obsidian chunks above knife-sharp cheekbones. A mass of ebony curls frame his delicate face, and his eyes sweep over them before lowering to the floor. “Good evening, Sirs. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Duo raises an eyebrow at that, at the submission inherent in the man’s actions. He’s beginning to have an inkling of Xavier’s character, the picture of a man so perfectly in control that he exudes dominance, that he draws out the deference of those who desire to be possessed. People like Heero – the thought makes him snarl inwardly – people who enjoy following orders, who crave the weight of a strong hand on the leash of their personality.

“What did your compatriots decide?” Duo asks, voice carefully neutral.

Everything about Xavier rubs him the wrong way, makes him feel like a prickly cat with fur brushed upright. Everything from his beauty, sharp as a double-bladed knife, to the intrinsic authority  that flows from his body as naturally as breath. Xavier smiles disarmingly, his face transfigured into something that men would die to follow. And Duo feels his hackles rising in response to the challenge, every instinct in him screaming to put the man back in his place.

He draws in a breath, lashes his temper tight against the iron will of his control, and settles in to listen.

“They are willing to see you, to see if you fulfill the bargains that you have promised. They are particularly interested in the possibility of testing a new AI similar to the ZERO system, as soon as it is out of development. They did mention that they were seeking test subjects. However…” Xavier pauses, a calculating expression on his face. He rubs at his scar, fingers edging the ridged white line, before continuing.

“My backers, investors, and buyers are part of a… let us say, different lifestyle. Firefly is the public face of the company, but there is another set of more exclusive clubs that attract most of the people in the business. I’m not sure you or your fellow ex-pilots would fit in there.”

“Why don’t you let us decide that for ourselves,” Trowa comments flatly, unamused by the implication that the Gundam pilots are in some way incapable.

Xavier locks eyes with Trowa, and a shiver of dread etches itself down Duo’s spine. He has an ugly premonition of where this is headed, and it’s not going to be pretty. His stomach drops as Xavier confirms his suspicion.

“Very well, then. It’s a series of underground BDSM clubs. They’re extremely popular with the lifestyle, renowned for their safety and openness. And they’re extremely exclusive. I doubt that any of you have experience with Dominance and submission… though I am aware of a few Dominants that enjoy taming rebellious subs, if you would like to pursue that route,” Xavier muses.

Duo bristles as a flash of black leather boots and a voice commanding him to kneel flashes through his head.

“I ain’t kneelin’ to some half-assed hairy man who thinks he can use a whip,” he snaps, hands curling into fists.

He darts a glance back at Heero, who is stiff with anxiety and trepidation. “An’ neither is Heero.” He bares his teeth at Xavier, who is aiming a predatory examination over Heero’s slender frame. “Heero is _mine_ , X.”

“I can see that,” Xavier responds placidly, relaxing back against the couch. He glances down at his company. “This is my submissive, Wolf. He’s served me for years, and he’s very faithful. Does enjoy playing with new subs, incidentally…”

Wolf peeks out from beneath his bangs, dark eyes flicking over Heero. A hungry grin etches itself across his face and he licks his lips. Duo shoots him the most hateful, ‘fuck off and die’ glare that he can manage and the man’s eyes widen with fear, body cringing into Xavier’s protection.

“Mr…” Xavier begins, trailing off in an indication that he’s awaiting Duo’s name.

Duo snorts. “Azrael. No mister. An’ I doubt you’re the type to give me the title I like. By the way… keep your sub away from mine or I’ll cut his fucking hands off. That’s your only warning.”

“And what about mine?”

“If you wanna touch Heero, you’ll hafta go through me… an’ I wouldn’t bet on your chances. I won’t touch yours if you don’t touch mine. We’ll go to your club. Give Trine over there the info.” With that Duo turns away, barely restrained violence written across his frame.

He grabs Heero’s arm and steers him out of the room, convulsive grip imprinted into his partner’s skin. It’s only as the lights of the club fade behind them that Duo loosens his hand, releasing Heero’s bruised bicep from his cramping fingers.

“Your acting is impressive,” Heero comments quietly, rubbing absently at his arm.

“I wasn’t acting,” Duo snaps coldly, stalking toward the car.

Heero stops in his tracks, his jaw dropping slightly. His mind spins aimlessly for a moment, frictionless and useless, before it gains traction and catches up with him. “What?”

Duo spins on his heel so fast that Heero staggers back a step, stunned by the barely leashed fury radiating from the braided man’s face. Duo grabs a fistful of Heero’s shirt, hauling him bodily out of the street to slam him into the unyielding metal side of the Beast. Trapping Heero within the cage of his arms, he leans in until the color of his eyes blurs in Heero’s sight.

“You. Are. _Mine_ ,” he bites out, carefully enunciating each word. “And if anyone fucking touches you, I will put them in the ground, with my bare hands, and they will fucking _wish_ that I was still piloting my Gundam.”

Heero grasps at the only viable concept in that threat. “Why would anyone still wish you had a Gundam?”

“Because Deathscythe kills quickly. They never see it coming. They will know, when I come for them, that death is upon them. And by the end, when I am damn well ready to let them go, they will fucking beg for it.”

 

* * *

 

Bleary-eyed and fuzzy, the pilots stagger into their familiar conference room. It’s always the same room, with the same empty table and borderline uncomfortable chairs. Sometimes, if you shift just the right way, you can actually be relaxed for 3.5 seconds. At least that’s what Duo tells himself, as he twitches restlessly from one position to another.

“Sit still, Maxwell,” Trowa grumbles. “You look like a fucking Transformer, you’re shifting so much.”

Duo sticks his tongue out in a remarkable display of maturity. He and Trowa marathon old movies when Quatre and Heero are away, using every possible excuse to quote them. He opens his mouth to resort, shutting it with a click of teeth as Une strides into the room.

“Gentlemen,” she begins, as she often does. She pulls their reports from the pile and fans them across the table in front of her. “I’ve read your information from last night’s meeting.”

Lifting her solemn mahogany eyes to their waiting faces, she shrugs in an unusually casual display. “I’m not sure where to go from here, to be completely honest. We could continue to pursue the issue, see if infiltrating these new clubs will achieve our goal. However… what little I know of this lifestyle indicates that this could be a potentially risky path.”

“Begging your pardon, Lady,” Quatre speaks up diplomatically. “But I believe I am speaking for all of us when I say that we have no desire to allow this narcotic to remain in circulation. And as veterans, we certainly have no desire to permit a weapons manufacturing ring to fester.”

She nods in acknowledgement, still looking uncertain and terribly young. Duo is reminded abruptly that she is not much older than they are, that she was thrust into the command of this infant organization at a point in her life when many would still consider her a child. A pang of sympathy rocks him.

“Quatre is right. We can’t let kids keep dyin’ for this drug. An’ we can’t let people keep tryin’ ta remake ZERO. That system was a bloody nightmare, Ma’am, if you’ll excuse me sayin’.”

The pilots nod in agreement and Une spreads her hands in concession. “Very well. I won’t ask for a concrete decision right now. I think you should research this lifestyle before you put yourselves in any situation involving it. Discover what you can about what to expect. And,” she lifts one of the reports, “I suppose you have to decide what role to put yourselves in. It seems as if it might be easiest to play submissive parts and allow these leaders to have the temporary upper hand.”

“I can’t do that, Lady,” Duo states firmly, his tone unwavering.

Her eyebrows lift in surprise, the child soldier in him quails, but his resolve only hardens. He would die before he put himself beneath the hand of someone like Xavier. “It seems it would need a careful and knowledgeable touch to pretend control, Agent Maxwell. Do you have any experience with the opposite role?”

Duo’s cheeks brighten with embarrassment as he fights the urge to drop his eyes to the table. He swallows with an audible click, refusing to meet the eyes of the other pilots. “I do.”

A strange voice, haunting and resonant, echoes out into the room. “As do I.”

Duo turns his head to examine Trowa, recognizing the unmistakable tone of Trine. It’s disturbing, to look into the eyes of someone he’s known for years and see a near-stranger staring back at him. Trine’s gaze is steady, unyielding, and very, very cold.

“I see. In that case, Quatre, Heero, the research falls to you. If you can handle assuming a submissive role, you will maintain your disguise as partners with Trowa and Duo. If not, I suppose we could find another pair of agents to play your companions,” Une muses, her gaze distant as it tracks the possibilities.

Heero stiffens by Duo’s side. “I don’t imagine that will be an issue for me, Lady. I am more than capable of adapting to any role necessary.”

She waves a negligent hand. “Find the necessary information, Agent Yuy, and we’ll discuss this again soon.”

 

* * *

 

Heero is strangely reticent on the way home, staring mutely out the window. Duo parks the suv in the driveway, turns to face his silent partner. Heero stubbornly refuses to acknowledge him, eyes fixed on the slow waltz of falling leaves.

“Ya don’t hafta do this if ya don’t want to, ‘Ro,” Duo murmurs, gentling his hand over Heero’s shoulder.

Heero shifts out from under his hand, shoving the door open. “I don’t need you to make excuses for me, Duo.”

“Fuck you, ‘Ro. I was tryin’ to give ya a fucking out. You can’t fake this shit. If you say you’re gonna do it, you can’t half-ass it. That means you’re probably going to have to let me fuck you. I’m not makin’ excuses for you, ‘Ro, but this shit is gonna be way more than just a mission. Do your goddamn homework, and don’t blame me for the answers you find.”

 


End file.
